‘Thanks for waiting,’ Sjöberg began. ‘I’m sorry we’re so late.’
They went into the living room and introduced themselves to Elise, who looked scared, sitting curled up on the couch with her arms around her knees. She was red-eyed from crying and avoided making eye contact.
Sjöberg set the MP3 player on the coffee table and noted that someone had wiped it clean since they were last here. The kitchen, too, was somewhat more presentable, Sjöberg noticed as he passed it. He had a feeling it was the girl who had tidied up after the party the previous evening. Her mother looked like she had just woken up where she sat, collapsed at the other end of the couch, her hair in disarray. With a quick movement Elise tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the table in front of her mother and lit it with trembling hands. Her mother did not seem to notice, or else she didn’t care.
‘How do you feel today?’ Sjöberg asked carefully. ‘This must be hard for you …?’
Elise turned her eyes towards the dirty living room window. She did not react to the question, so Sjöberg let his gaze wander to the mother instead.
‘Yes,’ she answered with uncertainty in her eyes and an almost ingratiating expression on her face.
Perhaps she was making an effort now to react in the manner she thought was expected of her. Perhaps the sorrow was much greater on the inside than it appeared. Perhaps she felt no pain at all. It was impossible to know what was going on in this person’s mind. Was she accustomed to disparaging looks or was she perhaps completely dulled after years of substance abuse? This catastrophe was probably just one in a series of disasters that had struck her over the years.
‘You don’t know … You don’t really know what you should do.’
Elise was staring out the window, apparently unaffected by the conversation. Sjöberg studied her clean profile and was struck by the likeness to her sister. He wondered about the caprice of nature: two such beautiful daughters coming out of a person like Lena Johansson. Lena Johansson could never have been beautiful. Even overlooking the wrinkles, swollen eyes, large-pored and scarred skin, what remained was average-looking at best.
‘No. It must be extremely hard to pull yourself together after something like this. We’re doing our utmost to arrest the perpetrator, if that’s any consolation. For that reason we need to ask both of you a few questions, if you’re up to it.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage. Won’t we, Elise? We have to help the inspector now.’
She looked imploringly at her daughter, but got no response. Elise reached towards the table for the ashtray, pulled it to her and set it on her lap.
‘Tell me about her boyfriend,’ Sjöberg began. ‘Because she did have a boyfriend, didn’t she, Elise?’
Elise squirmed a little on the couch and answered quietly, her eyes moving between the cigarette and the ashtray.
‘His name is Joakim. He’s twenty-four years old, I think. But I don’t know if they were together any more. They were supposed to go out last Friday, but she decided not to, it seemed like.’
‘Did she say that?’
‘She said that maybe she was going to see him. If she felt like it.’
‘Have you ever met Joakim?’
‘No.’
‘What did she say about him?’
‘Nothing in particular, as far as I remember. I guess he was nice.’
‘Were you close to each other, you and Jennifer?’
‘I don’t know exactly. I don’t think so. We share a room. Shared a room.’
Elise took a few deep puffs on the cigarette and let the smoke out of her mouth in small, well-formed rings. A random thought passed through Sjöberg’s mind: Smoking is better suited to overweight, older women.
‘Well, what did she do then? Last Friday? Did she see him?’
‘I don’t know. I went out. When I came back she was here anyway.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘Twelve-thirty maybe.’
‘What were you doing?’
‘I was just out. Hung out for a bit down on Götgatan. Saw a friend. Nina.’
‘Were you at home on Friday evening?’
Sjöberg had turned to the mother, who seemed to have lost focus. She did not appear to be listening to what was being said. He could see how she pulled herself together when she was spoken to.
‘I was at home, yes. Last Friday.’
‘And Jennifer,’ Sjöberg coaxed further, ‘was she at home or did she maybe go out for a while?’
Lena Johansson looked embarrassed and answered, stammering, ‘Don’t remember … yes … no … No, I really don’t remember, I have to say.’
Sjöberg imagined that Friday evening was presumably not very different from Sunday evening. There were probably not too many evenings that Lena Johansson could actually account for.
‘Did you have guests then too?’ Hamad chimed in.
‘She always has guests,’ Elise clarified.
‘Who was here last Friday?’ Hamad continued. ‘Perhaps you remember, Elise?’
‘The usual,’ she answered tonelessly. ‘Monkan, Gordon, Peo, Solan. Dagge. Some strange guy that Solan dragged here. Bengtsson and Lidström. That tall, ugly jerk with no teeth. What the hell’s his name?’
She turned towards her mother and looked at her with a blank expression.
‘John,’ she answered, nervously picking at the cuticle of one thumb and not looking up.
‘John,’ Elise repeated. ‘And the Finn. I don’t remember any others.’
Hamad wrote down everything that was said and Sjöberg continued.
‘You and Jennifer – were you usually present at these parties?’
‘No, not that often.’
‘And what about on Friday?’
‘We sat in for a while.’
‘Did you get drunk?’
Elise hesitated, perhaps deliberating what answer would benefit her the most. The truth? Or a modified version?
‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘Not really drunk, but a little drunk.’
‘And Jennifer?’
‘We drank more or less the same amount. Maybe she drank more after she left. I don’t know.’
‘Do you offer the girls alcohol?’ Sjöberg directed to the mother, more out of curiosity than as a reprimand.
‘They steal from me. What can I do? And you took my smokes with you when you left, didn’t you?’ she said to Elise, who did not comment on the accusation.
‘So you were in kind of a rowdy mood on Friday, Elise?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t have any money …’ Elise began, but bit her lip as she said it. ‘We were supposed to go out, but Nina and I just walked around a little. Didn’t do anything special,’ she added.
Sjöberg noted the slight change in the way she spoke, the sudden sharpness at those words. He wondered what kind of foolishness this girl had been involved in, but decided to drop the subject for the moment and only come back to it if it proved necessary.
‘Why didn’t you go on the Finland trip?’ he asked instead.
‘I guess they didn’t want me along,’ Elise answered with a shrug and looked at something outside the window, uninterested again.
‘Do you know if there was anyone who disliked Jennifer, anyone who threatened her?’
‘Who would that be? Everyone wanted to be friends with Jennifer. And all the guys were hot for her,’ she added.
‘Did she have many boyfriends?’ Sjöberg asked.
‘Before she did. Not any more, I think. She thought the boys were so childish. Well, and then there was Joakim of course.’
‘Yes, he is a little older. A little more mature.’
Sjöberg listened to the echo of his words and thought he sounded like an old man talking to a child. Empty phrases, awkward attempts to put himself on a level that actually did not suit either of them. She – a child? Hardly. And he – wise from the experiences of a long life? He dismissed the thought.
‘Hmm,’ said Elise.
‘She
had nothing going with any of the blokes who always hang around here?’ Hamad suggested.
‘Hell, no!’ she exclaimed, spitting out the words. ‘If you saw them, you wouldn’t even ask.’
She cast a contemptuous look at her mother, who did not respond.
‘There were no jealous former boyfriends who bothered her?’
‘No,’ Elise answered.
Lena Johansson adamantly refused, as Sjöberg had feared, to go to Finland to identify the body. The two policemen left the Johansson family’s home without having got a single solid piece of information. Still, their picture of Jennifer was that much clearer now. A sixteen-year-old, precocious in many ways, from a broken home, with a poorly functioning family and a shaky life in other respects too. A sixteen-year-old with a mind of her own, with certain social ambitions, but apparently no occupational or academic ambitions. Accustomed to taking care of herself, unaccustomed to emotional ties. Accustomed to going her own way, unaccustomed to outside demands.
You could see traces of their common upbringing in little sister Elise, but not much of the vitality that seemed to have characterized her older sister. What would life be like for Elise without her dominant big sister? Even though they did not appear to have communicated with each other, they must have talked to each other, exchanged words and opinions. Who would be there now for Elise?
Barbro was tired. She was sleepy, and her feet were sore. She should have ended the day’s trek hours ago, but instead she sat down on a bench, finished the rest of the coffee in the Thermos and had the last sandwich. While she ate she considered going home and calling that Nyman again, being a little pushy. But when the sandwich was finished she felt stronger and dismissed that thought. Calling him now would not get her anywhere; she would only be giving in to her fatigue and backing out of what she had set out to do. She would finish off Zinken too before the day was over, and anyway it was better to wait to put pressure on the county detective unit until a full day had passed. Perhaps then, despite everything, Nyman would have managed to get the information from Telia she had tried to pressure him for.
Now it was starting to get dark. Barbro had completed what she’d made up her mind to do, but obviously, she was forced to admit to herself, without success. True, she had found no fewer than two apartment buildings in the vicinity of Zinken’s allotments where the name Bergman was on the directory inside the front door, but there had been no yellow castle to be seen. And it was doubtful whether the allotments could even be visible from the windows in those buildings.
When she had finished Krukmakargatan she finally decided to make her way homewards, and chose Zinkens väg through the green belt instead of the same route back. As she was walking across the turning area which for her marked the start of Zinkens väg, she passed for the second time several low, red buildings with an adjoining play area, all surrounded by a green fence. On the wall was a sign announcing that the Pipemaker Preschool was inside, perhaps christened after the old tobacco factory in the vicinity. A random thought occurred to Barbro and prompted her to open the gate and go over to a closed door. Doubtful that anyone would still be there, she rang the doorbell anyway, and to her surprise someone immediately opened up. It was a young woman about twenty-five in a jacket and gym shoes, with a bag hanging over her shoulder. She showed all the signs of being on her way out.
‘Excuse me for bothering you,’ said Barbro, ‘but I need to ask a few questions. You work here at the preschool, I assume?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the woman answered, ‘but now I’m closing for the day.’
‘I can see that, but this will only take a minute. First, I’d like to know whether you know a little girl named Hanna? Hanna Birgitta to be more precise. Unfortunately I don’t know her last name, but I know she has a brother named Lukas.’
The woman thought for a moment before answering.
‘I know a few Hannas, but I don’t think any of them has a brother named Lukas. How old is she?’
‘Unfortunately I don’t know that either,’ Barbro replied, ‘and that’s what the next question is about. How old do you think a girl is who doesn’t know her last name and who says how old she is by showing fingers?’
‘Well, that does depend on how grown-up she is of course,’ said the woman, by now with an amused gleam in her eye.
‘This girl is very grown-up,’ Barbro hurried to say. ‘She knows colours and speaks extremely well. Uses whole sentences.’
‘Then I would guess three, four at the most. At five they usually know their last name. And then they’re usually very particular about half years,’ she added with a laugh. ‘There is a big difference between five and five-and-a-half, and I’m guessing she doesn’t have half a finger?’
Barbro smiled back and thanked the woman for her help. But inside she felt growing worry. The answers she got only confirmed what she seemed to remember from her own daughter’s childhood but hoped was wrong. The abandoned girl was no more than four, more likely only three years old.
* * *
Lena Johansson was tired. Of most things, but above all tired of herself. She was thirty-seven years old, but on the rare occasions she looked at herself in the mirror, she thought she looked much older. She had never been a beauty, but her early life had been easy. Even though many of the girls in school were prettier, there was something about her, her attitude to life, that made schoolmates flock around her, including the boys. The same way it had been for Jennifer. Elise was from a different mould, more withdrawn. Both of them were extremely good-looking; they got that from Janne.
Janne and she were the same age and had met during high school in Södertälje. He was a survivor, grew up in a family of substance abusers with parents who abdicated their parental roles early on. Apparently unaffected by his background, he had everything the boys she grew up with were missing. He was big and strong, practical and industrious. He also had a kind of adultness about him that she had not encountered before, a well-filled wallet in his back pocket and a way with words that could bowl anyone over.
But above all it was his recklessness she fell for. His lack of respect for rules and authority and his attraction to adventure, to what was forbidden. She was an only child and her parents were much older than those of her friends. Maybe it was because they had not given her any siblings, or maybe it was to compensate for their advanced age that they spoiled her and gave her so much freedom.
As soon as they left high school – she from the two-year social work programme, Janne from the construction programme – they packed their bags and left Södertälje for the big city. Within a few days Janne had got a job at a construction site, and soon he had also talked his way into a sublet on the apartment where she and the girls still lived. She soon got work at a screen-printer’s in Västberga, where she was very happy.
But after six months Janne broke his arm and went on sick leave. It was a typical Janne thing: he had been working up on a roof without a safety rope, slipped and fell several storeys down on to a lower roof, and the only consequence was a broken arm. The old guys who’d seen the whole thing said he had a guardian angel. When Janne couldn’t work they rented out the apartment and travelled to Thailand with the money they had saved. It was a marvellous time: sun-drenched beaches, cheap to live and parties around the clock if you were so inclined. And both of them were. To start with she had been hesitant about all the drugs that were in circulation, hallucinogenic mushrooms and cheap diet pills that made you dance for days on end, but in Janne’s company she felt secure and let herself be talked into things she otherwise would not have dared try.
After almost a year of travelling they returned home, got married and had the children. But Janne could never really settle down again. He continued to experiment with drugs, and Lena knew he was not sober even during work hours. He became indifferent and nonchalant, and when the news of his death reached her from a bridge construction site west of the city, she was crushed but not surprised.
Elise was a newborn then
and life collapsed. Right after the accident Lena’s mother died of cancer and not long after her father, who was fifteen years older, died too. But she had never betrayed her girls. Despite all the sorrows and distress she had not given up; she had always been there for them. Consoled and nursed them. For their sake she pulled herself together, even if it hadn’t always been easy. No new blokes after Janne, no drugs. Except alcohol, which she had never been able to give up, although she had promised herself many times that she would quit. And here she was now, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was red-faced and bloated, swollen and wrinkled. And crying did not make it any better.
With tears streaming down her cheeks, she sat down on the toilet seat and let out her grief for her daughter. For the first time since she had got the news of Jennifer’s death she gave in to her feelings. In her mind she saw her beloved little girl, naked and pale on a shiny metal stretcher in a white-tiled room. An unbearable sight. She needed something to drink.
Monday Evening
That morning Hanna had thought ahead and taken all the packets out of the freezer. She could tell from the wrappers what was inside. Now she was on her knees on Daddy’s chair in the kitchen eating cold but no longer frozen meatballs straight from the table. This was her second meal of the day. In the morning she had found an unopened packet of liver pâté in the refrigerator and after hesitating for a long time she had finally used the big knife to open it. And she had succeeded, without cutting herself. Then she had eaten the entire packet without anything to go with it, but it had been good and she had felt full.
In the morning she played for a while in her room, but it had felt lonely. Even though no one besides herself was in the apartment, she felt more secure when she was in one of the rooms where the rest of the family usually were. She loaded her little doll’s pram full of toys and pulled it into the living room. Then she spent most of the day with her toys in front of the TV. Even if most of what was happening on the TV screen was incomprehensible, it felt better to be in a room where there was sound and voices. When she started to feel tired in the afternoon, she lay down to sleep in her parents’ bed and did not wake up until the sun was going down.
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